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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847588">The Weekend</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Modern_Girl/pseuds/A_Modern_Girl'>A_Modern_Girl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>What Remains [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Voyager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Loneliness, Post-Endgame, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:41:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Modern_Girl/pseuds/A_Modern_Girl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Voyager</i> has made it back to Earth, and Captain Janeway is doing just fine. Right up until the moment that she isn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>What Remains [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Weekend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My sincere thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFlower">TrekFlower</a> for beta reading this experiment.  All errors and questionable artistic decisions are mine ;)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The debriefings were going swimmingly.  At last, the decisions that haunted you for the last seven years were exposed for all to see.   'Why did you go after Captain Ransom first?  How could you leave Seven of Nine unattended long enough to wake up the Vaadwaur?'  Questions that tortured you late at night didn’t sting as much when you could see the Golden Gate Bridge out the window.  Admiral Paris pulled you aside between sessions to praise your stoic, mature response to the criticism. And why not? How could their words hurt you when your crew was safe and home?</p><p>The greatest surprise comes on Friday afternoon when the gavel bangs and a recess is called until Monday morning at 0900.  What purpose could that serve?  There is work to be done!  Unaware of your consternation, the admirals and their aides file out of the room, discussing gardening projects and the prospects of their children’s Pareses Squares tournaments.  Apparently, the esteemed admirals have duties outside of Starfleet.  Dismissed and seemingly forgotten, you stride across campus, projecting a confidence you do not feel.  It is the first time since your return that there is nothing on the schedule.  With no celebrations or examinations, you feel startlingly untethered.</p><p>Luckily, your mother had anticipated this calamity, and her dinner invitation is waiting for you in your temporary quarters.  She advises that you bring an overnight bag - your sister’s family will also be attending, and the gathering might not end until after midnight.  Your shoulders relax at the idea.  That should keep you busy until at least noon on Saturday.  </p><p>Pushing away thoughts of all the hours that remain unaccounted for, you start packing.  Toothbrush, comb, and a flannel nightgown - it’s early January, after all. On the way out the door you notice a bouquet of flowers on the step that you overlooked on your way in.  The name on the card belongs to a forgotten lover from another lifetime.  You wince as you crumple up the card and throw it in the foyer.  The bouquet itself is lovely - lilies so white they almost glow, accented with dusky, purple roses.  You reckon your mother will love it.</p><p>The transport station is bustling and you slip through the crowd largely unnoticed.  Whenever you feel someone’s gaze lingering, you use the bouquet to block their view and move along.  No one stops you, and you sigh with relief when the transporter beam pulls you away.  A simple transfer from the Bloomington station and you are at your mother’s front door.</p><p>You stand outside for a moment, watching your breath crystallize and disperse, performing a threat assessment, even though you would never admit to it.  Inside, your four-year-old niece is shrieking with glee, and your brother-in-law, Benito, is egging her on.  A female voice, not very different from your own, demands that they calm down, and a wail from your three-month-old nephew settles the debate.</p><p>The brief silence gives you the courage to open the door.  It’s unlocked as it always is.  Your eyes meet your sister’s first, and you smile.  It is not completely genuine, about 86 percent, but that is close enough.  You glance around and realize that you are the only one in uniform.  The grey-on-black feels grim and out of place, and it sucks the joy from the room with its formality. Your smile falters.</p><p>Your mother turns the corner from the kitchen and rushes to greet you.  She takes the flowers with a sly wink  and suggests you leave your things in your bedroom. Almost as an afterthought, she mentions that she saw a sweater at the craft market a week ago and thought of you - maybe you want to try it on? 
Somehow, she has predicted your embarrassment with the uniform as well as your desperate need for weekend plans.  As you ascend the creaky staircase, you wonder how many times she rehabilitated you and your late father after long missions.  Did either of you ever bother to thank her?</p><p>Your childhood room is a little stale, and the curtains and bedspread have faded from garish magenta into a gentle pink.  You miss your quarters on <i>Voyager</i> for just a moment, then you shuck off your jacket and turtleneck and pull on the sweater.   A quick glance in the dusty mirror confirms that it is a perfect fit, and you sweep out of the room to rejoin the action.</p><p>Standing awkwardly in the living room, your mother saves you again - dinner is served. You take a seat, reach for a dinner roll, and then realise everyone is sitting silently, eyes closed, hands clasped in front of them.  Years of diplomatic training kick in and you mimic their posture, despite your unease.  Everyone at the table exhales in unison and then chatter resumes. You crook an eyebrow at your mother, who shrugs.  “It’s a tradition Benito introduced us to while you were gone,” she explains.  Your face flushes.  You don’t have to guess what they were praying for during those years.</p><p>The conversation bubbles around but you don’t know how to join in.  You have become accustomed to admirals asking leading questions about your mission, and without a clear entry point, you are lost.  Benito locks onto you with dark, liquid eyes, and asks you the question you were least expecting.  What was your favorite food in the Delta Quadrant?  You answer honestly, and then find you are talking about Neelix, Naomi, the Nekrit Expanse. All the while, Benito urges you on, relating the crewmen you know and love with his colleagues at the restaurant, or Phoebe’s friends.  It is amazing how he turns your stories into their stories until they are intertwined.  When you smile at Phoebe, there is no reservation, and you hope she can tell that you approve of her choice of partner.  Not that she needed your approval, obviously.</p><p>The group migrates to the living room to sit by the fireplace and eat apple pie, and the chatter slowly fades to comfortable silence.  Antsy from the sugar, and wired from the high of reconnecting with your family, you gather up plates and forks, resolved to do the dishes.  Your mother protests, but with her grandson sleeping in her arms, it is clear that she doesn’t really mind.  In years gone by, the dishes were your job anyway.  It feels right, and you smile to yourself as you carefully balance the plates you carry to the sink.</p><p>As you remove sticky residue with a sponge, your mind wanders.  You’re tired, exhausted even, and you are confident you’ll sleep well in your childhood bed tonight.  After a lazy brunch, you’ll return to San Francisco.  And then what? You have no mission to accomplish.  The people you consider your closest friends are dispersed: Seven to Sweden, Tuvok on Vulcan, and Chakotay gone off to Dorvan.  So where does that leave you?</p><p>You look down and focus on your hands.  The water flowing from the tap isn’t recycled or replicated.  It is from the well outside, and before coming from the ground, it fell as rain, sometime while you were in the Delta Quadrant. The water is older than you, more permanent than you, and you rub the plate faster.</p><p>When you look up through the kitchen window, you can barely see the cornfields in the dark night.  You squint, trying to make out the horizon.  There is no telltale pixelation of a holodeck, but you have to be sure.  Shutting off the tap, you dry your hands, and slip into a pair of boots waiting by the back door.  You are out and away before anyone can notice you are gone.</p><p>You picture yourself as a child, running carefree though the fields.  The reality is less romantic.  Your boots crunch on the frosty stalks, your lungs burn in the cold air, and your 44-year-old joints protest.  You make it a half mile at most before stopping and falling to your knees.</p><p>You look up.  The stars are brilliant in the country, just like you remember.  But they are so far away.  Much, much too far away… </p><p>It is Benito who finds you and leads you back inside.  You know you should be embarrassed, but the feeling won’t come.  You collapse on the couch next to your mother, and finally, cry.</p><p>At first it feels like a relief, like a triumph.  You can feel things again, and it hurts so good.  But it’s been an hour, and you haven’t stopped.  You try, but another sob is waiting on the next breath.  Another hour passes.  Your mother is steadfast, but this goes beyond even her skills.  She asks for a name, someone she can call.  It takes you several tries, but finally you croak out the words.</p><p>You stop trying to stifle your sobs, and time passes.  When he arrives, he materializes by transporter, not by projecting his matrix into the local environment like you’re used to.  It startles you and you start to hiccup.  Your mother explains the situation.  It is well past one in the morning by now.  Your guest sends her to bed and kneels in front of you.</p><p>“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” he prods gently.</p><p>“I’m broken,” you reply, and it is honest, so honest, that the tears start anew.</p><p>You watch him through bleary eyes, and you can see that he understands.  This being of photons gets it, and a fresh wave of relief washes over you.  A memory surfaces: at a more desperate time, you had compared him to a replicator.  The horror of it makes you want to wail, but you clench your teeth, willing yourself not to wake the children.</p><p>The Doctor nods.</p><p>“I understand, and I would like to help,” he says, “If that’s what you want.”</p><p>You take stock of your shaky limbs, your runny nose, the headache that is forming.  You are broken.  You said so yourself.  Maybe you cannot be fixed.  But looking at your dear friend, you think, maybe, you can be healed.</p><p>“Yes,” you reply, “but -”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“The stars are too far away.”</p><p>The Doctor nods again.</p><p>“We’ll fix that first,” he says.</p><p>You stand, smooth your sweater, and nod in return.</p><p>“Doctor to Admiral Paris, two to beam up.”</p><p>And when you re-emerge from the pillar of light, you know you have made the right choice.  The stars glitter all around you, and you are ready to begin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was originally a writing exercise that took on a mind of its own, I hope you enjoyed it!  Stay tuned for the main event, a J/C endgame fixer, coming soon!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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